City of Mirrors (17 page)

P
arson's driver was wearing an earbud. After checking my purse and patting me down, he talked rapidly into his lapel mike. “I got Diana Poole here. She wants to see Parson about his daughter.” He paused, listening. “I told her he wasn't here. I'm not going to take responsibility for this.
You
deal with her. She's fucking crazy.” He angrily jerked the bud out of his ear, letting it dangle on its plastic wire. He nodded to the security guard. “Let her go on up.”

The guard led me deeper into the lobby to a single glossy black elevator. He pressed the button beside it. In seconds the doors slid open. I stepped inside. He leaned in, slid a small key into a slot, hit the button marked “PH”—there were no other floor numbers—and stepped back out. The doors closed with a whisper, encasing me in what felt like a chic coffin. Fighting off creeping claustrophobia, I wondered what I could offer Parson to get Ryan back.

The elevator opened onto a long brightly lit hallway lined with closed office doors. At the end of it a man sat in a leather club chair, his feet resting on a small table alongside his vente-sized Starbucks. His huge thighs pressed against the sides of the chair, and his broad chest bulged under his dark jacket. He peered up from the magazine he was thumbing through and watched as I walked toward him. He wore an earbud like the chauffeur's.

“Turn around and go back. Mr. Parson's not here,” he ordered.

“Then where is he?” Clenching my jaw, I kept walking toward him.

He didn't answer. Instead, he sighed heavily, heaved his feet up off the table, and stood. Rolling the magazine up, he pounded it against the palm of his hand.
Slap. Slap.
He looked like a man who was going to swat an irritating fly—and I was the fly.

Acting is all about focusing. If you lose focus, you lose believability with your audience. I had an audience of one, and I needed him to think I was a woman he had to deal with.

Now the table was between us. Never taking my eyes off him, I spoke in a firm voice, “Tell Parson that Diana Poole is here and I have important information about his daughter's death.”

Slap. Slap.
“Mr. Parson's not here. Give me your phone number. Someone will call you.”

“You're going to write my number down with that?” I gestured at the magazine.

The
slap, slap
stopped, and his eyes narrowed menacingly.

I glared back, my heart throbbing. “Parson told me to get in touch as soon as I learned anything new about his daughter's death. He's going to be pissed as hell if you don't let me see him.”

“That still doesn't make him here.”

As the
slap, slap
resumed, a door to my right flew open. A gaunt woman in her forties with a mass of uncombed auburn hair reached out.

She gripped my arm. “In here.”

Surprised, the guard frowned and blurted at the woman, “That door's supposed to be locked from the outside.”

Before he'd finished talking, she yanked on my arm and I let her pull me inside. She slammed the door behind us, threw the bolt, and locked it with a key.

The guard pounded on the door. “Open up! Open up, dammit!”

“We don't have much time.” Hands twitching, she was terribly thin but had Jenny's sharp, intense animal-like eyes. “I stole the key from that bastard out there, Bruno. They'll have to find another one.”

“Mrs. Parson?” I asked.

“Yes. And you're Diana Poole. I used to go to the movies and eat popcorn. That was when I was like other people. Sit down.”

She pointed to a long black leather sofa. Behind it, primitive Peruvian statues were displayed in a perfect line on a steel console table. Looking at them, I felt the weight of even more ghosts. Only ancient ones. We sat on the sofa in a sleekly decorated living room with a 180-degree view of the city lights. Our reflections, two desperate women, were superimposed over this panorama.

Bruno had stopped his pounding. The silence felt more dangerous than the constant banging.

Her eyes nervously shifted to the door, then back to me. “I'm being treated like a prisoner. Nobody tells me anything. I was listening at the door. You said you had information about my daughter. What is it?” Her face had been lifted but no burden had been eased. “The only thing I know is that she was murdered and left in the garbage.” She shuddered and tears rolled down her sunken face. “Why? Who would do something so awful to Jenny?”

“Is your husband here?”

“No.”

“But his driver …”

“Sometimes he uses Luis instead of Gerald as his chauffeur.”

I thought of the young manservant—Luis—who solicitously watched over Parson on the yacht. Then I said, “I know why Jenny was murdered. I'll tell you, but first I need you to help me. My friend Ryan Johns is missing. Your husband has him. Can you tell me where he is?”

Her body stiffened as she eyed me cynically. “There's always a deal involved.”

“I'm trying to save my friend.”

She stared at the stony distorted creatures on the table behind us, probably worth millions. “We collect from the dead.” Her gaze shifted back to me. “Are you collecting from the dead, too?”

“I told you, I just want to help Ryan.”

“I locked myself in here to keep them all away so I could …” her voice faltered.

“You said yourself we don't have much time,” I prompted.

“I'll tell you where he is, but first you tell me why Jenny was murdered.”

I decided I had no other choice. “How strong are you?”

“A dead daughter has given me strength I never knew I had.” She held up the stolen key to prove it.

I explained how I had discovered Jenny's body. When I described the sex taping and the blackmail, her face went rigid and her lips drew into a sad bitter line. I didn't tell her about Ryan and Jenny.

She stood and walked to the wall of glass and stared out at the shadowy hills above Sunset Boulevard. Clinging to their steep lots, the houses glimmered with lights.

I rose to my feet. “Mrs. Parson, the guards will be back any moment. Please, I have to find your husband. He'll know about Ryan.”

“I watched Jenny change. She stopped loving me.”

Her back was to me, and her bony shoulder blades pushed at her white T-shirt. Her tight jeans seemed to be holding what was left of her skin and bones together.

“Now and then,” she continued, “her sweet façade would slip, and in its place would be that heartless look of her father's. She admired him, wanted to be like him. I wish his mask had slipped before I married him. He knew he would've lost me if I'd seen who he truly was.” She peered back at me. “He's the consummate actor. He makes the rest of you look like amateurs.”

The sound of fists banging on the door started up again. This time two male voices demanded to be let in. A key rattled in the lock. But the bolt held.

“Where is Parson?” I prodded.

She stared at the front door as if she didn't know what it was. Now there was the loud thumping of men throwing their bodies against it. The door shuddered. It wouldn't hold for long.

I grabbed her shoulders, trying to force her attention back to me. “Tell me where he's gone!”

“The Rock,” she spoke distractedly, as if she had something more important on her mind.

There was the noise of a huge thud against the door.

As it wobbled on its hinges, I said urgently, “I need the address.”

“He never took me to The Rock. He took Jenny. When she came back, she wanted to be an actress. Anything he wanted, Jenny wanted.”

I shook her hard. “Give me a location!”

“I don't know where it is!” she screamed at me, then took a deep breath, and collected herself. “I do know he goes there for solace … or to kill someone. That's probably why Luis drove him. Luis is an expert at killing.”

My heart sank. I released her.

The front door buckled and crashed open.

Mrs. Parson quickly tapped the glass wall. It slid open, revealing a narrow balcony and harsh city noises rising up from the street. At the same time, Gerald, Bruno, and the rent-a-cop from the lobby rushed into the room.

“Stop!” I yelled at them. “Leave her alone!”

I whirled back to Mrs. Parson. She was on the balcony facing us, pushing herself up onto the metal railing and sitting precariously with her back to the night.

“What are you doing?” I worked to keep my voice calm. I was about four feet from her but afraid to get any closer.

“What I intended to do all along. Why else would I lock myself in here?” Her hands were a bloodless white from gripping the rail.

“Get down, Mrs. Parson,” Bruno said, breathing hard.

Bruno and Gerald moved next to me. The rent-a-cop lingered in the background, nervously pulling at his lip.

“If I die, my husband will kill both of you.” Her voice was high-pitched but strong. The truth of her statement froze them in their tracks. She smiled triumphantly as the wind pulled at her hair. “Tell Diana Poole where The Rock is.”

“You know we don't know where it is.” Bruno spoke in a pleading voice.

“You always lie to me.”

“Swear to God, we don't know.” Sweat poured from under the chauffeur's chin. “That's why he had Luis drive him. Only him and Rubio know, and they're with Mr. Parson.”

“Tell her!” She released her hold on the rail and raised her hands into the air, her thin body swaying back and forth dangerously.

“The Rock, Mrs. Parson, that's all we know.” Bruno inched forward again.

“Please get down,” I said to her. “This is no way to …”

She cut me off. “You don't understand. This is the only control I have left.” She grinned at the two guards. “You two bastards are dead.”

She leaned back, her legs extending out in front of her, and for a brief moment she looked as if she were resting against a pile of dark pillows.

“No!” I lunged for her.

Bruno rushed after me.

But before we could reach her, she tumbled backward, falling into the night.

O
n the balcony, Bruno swung away from the railing and was instantly in front of me, his massive body blocking my way back into the penthouse. His sweaty eyes held mine.

Still reeling from Mrs. Parson's death, I knew if I made one wrong move Bruno would murder me.

Through the open glass wall I could see Gerald in the living room pacing in a small circle, dragging his hands through his dyed hair. “Jesus fucking Christ, Parson's going to kill us!”

Next to him, the rent-a-cop stood, stricken.

Gerald stopped pacing. He had an idea. “We have to shoot her. We can't let her go,” he said to Bruno.

“Shut up, you useless piece of shit.” Bruno's arm shot out and he clamped a hand on my wrist. My back was only inches from the railing—he could easily toss me over to join Mrs. Parson. But the pain from his death-grip caused my mind to click into gear.

I talked quickly: “Your only chance to get out of this alive is if Parson never finds out I was here.” Bruno tightened his squeeze on my wrist. Pain ripped up my arm, but I had his attention. “And you don't want Parson to know that his wife stole the key from you, Bruno. Think about it, if she was locked in properly and jumped off the balcony on her own, you're not to blame.”

Unnervingly composed, Bruno assessed me.

“I didn't do anything. I didn't do
anything
!” The rent-a-cop began to cry. “I'm not part of any of this. I get minimum wage.”

Gerald jammed his fist into his face. “Shut the fuck up.” The man staggered backwards, holding his jaw.

“You don't have much time,” I told Bruno. “There are people down there on the street. They've probably already called 911. It'll look bad if you don't call, too.”

Bruno said over his shoulder to Gerald, “Do it. Just say a woman's jumped and give the address. Then hang up. I'll call Mr. Parson myself.”

He pulled me back into the living room and glared at the rent-a-cop. “Get back down to the desk. When the cops arrive, show them up here. And if you want to go on with your useless life, make sure you don't know shit.”

As the man fled, Gerald talked to 911. Bruno dragged me across the living room and out the front door into the brightly lit hallway just as the elevator doors closed.

“You have to let me go, Bruno. It's the only way.” I struggled against his grasp.

Pulling me across the hall, he opened an office door. But it wasn't an office. He shoved me into another, smaller elevator. I stumbled, and he lunged after me, grabbing my throat and pushing me with his body against the wall. Fingers digging into my flesh, he leaned his full weight on me, shoving one of his legs between mine so I couldn't knee him. I struggled to breathe.

“Remember one thing.” His damp cheek rested heavily against mine, and I felt his hot sweat seeping into my skin. “If Parson finds out you were here or if he thinks you had anything to do with his wife's death, he'll kill you too. Do we understand each other?”

I tried to nod but couldn't. I blinked. Tears formed.

“Push the basement button. The elevator will take you down to Parson's private garage. There's an exit door that'll take you to the street at the rear of the building.” With one last shake of my throat, he released me, backed his massive frame out the elevator, and watched me suck for air and fumble for the basement button. I finally hit it.

Plummeting downward, I tried to swallow, I tried to take deep breaths, I tried not to think of Parson's wife falling to her death—the only power she'd had over her husband and her guards.

The elevator came to an abrupt halt, and the doors slid open. Chest tight, I peered out, looking for more men who might be hiding, waiting for me. But there was no place to hide in this windowless, fluorescence-lit room that looked big enough to hold just one limo. There was a steel corrugated garage door. Across from it was the exit. I ran for it, still not knowing where I was heading or how I could find Ryan.